His Name Was Michael Nesmith
by i dont like people much
Summary: Everyone knows about the old house on Beachwood Drive, said to be haunted by the ghost of an angry lover who was murdered sometime in the 70s. Most won't dare to live in it, saying that the spirit is angry and violent. Micky Doland, however, is more than willing to go live with a ghost. Until he finds out that he looks exactly like the ghost's old lover. AU fic of sorts.
1. Prologue

**Trigger Warnings: Murder, blood, mentioned suicide, suggested abuse, homophobia, death**

 **Beta-read by my lovely friends Ari and Matts and dedicated to them both.**

* * *

 ** _1334 North Beachwood Drive,  
_** ** _December 29th, 1972_**

* * *

Davy had lost plenty of people in his life. His mother, his father, his sister, his first girlfriend, three grandparents, an aunt, and three dogs. Eleven lives. Eleven lives lost, without any way of stopping it. Eleven lives that had been ripped away, some he could have stopped and some he couldn't. Eleven. The number seemed burned into his mind. Seemed far, far too large, though also felt like a constant threat that it'd grow. On some days, it felt like it was all he could think of. Would today be the day the number reached twelve? Would it be in this next hour? The next minute?

Countless nights had been spent mourning over the lost lives. Countless times when he'd cried and screamed and begged for mercy from some unseen God, asking why bad things happened. Asking why he deserved it, why this had happened. Why everyone else seemed so happy and content, while he was stuck in this endless cycle of pain. Why everyone he loved left, why everything he needed was lost. Begging for an answer, for some sort of reason. He'd done it in a past life, maybe? He'd done something wrong, he had to've. He'd done something terrible, but it was a price that could be payed. And once it was, it'd all be okay.

And it felt like such a constant weight to bear. Like it was always in the back of his mind, something he could never escape. He was alone. And in the end he'd be alone, everyone he loved would die one day and he'd be so, painfully alone.

But moments like these? Well. It made it easy to forget about things like that.

"Race you downstairs," Micky called, turning the heads of both Mike and Peter in the direction of their other two friends. Davy didn't wait a second at the bet, flipping himself over the railing and falling down to the floor. Micky's body fell to the wooden floor at the same time, though less gracefully, falling on his stomach where Davy had landed on his feet. Davy whooped and jumped, thrusting his fist into the air.

"I won!" Micky cried anyways, darting up to his feet. "Didn't I, Mike? I won!"

"Neither of you won," Mike replied, ignoring as Micky latched onto his middle and started shaking him. "That wasn't a race, that was falling fast."

"A race of falling," Davy countered, not minding Micky saying he'd lost. It was to be expected. "A falling race. A falling fast race, the faster faller wins the falling race."

Peter looked over at that, repeating 'the faster faller wins the falling race' a few times, as if it were a new tongue twister.

"I won," Micky tried again, this time pressing his head under Mike's head, knowing he liked the action. "You gotta pick me, I'm your guy."

"You're the pain in my ass," Mike replied, though his arms did move to settle around Micky's middle. Micky beamed at that, knowing he was winning Mike over, and moved to kiss over Mike's neck and up to the bottom of his jaw. Mike's favorite, he knew; he had a long neck, and he loved attention to it. Kisses and bites, and everything else. Mike smiled at it, Micky could tell, and soon enough agreed. "You won."

"That's cheating," Davy whined, jumping up on the table so he was eye-to-eye with the rest of them. "You can't ask him to judge, he'll always pick you."

"That's what happens, when I date the guy in charge," Micky replied, sticking his tongue out at Davy and still keeping his arms wrapped around his lover's middle.

"Is he in charge in bed, too?" Davy asked. " _Oh, Mike, I love it so much when you're in charge-_ " Davy's mocking cut off abruptly as he was shoved off the table, falling to the floor with a small 'oomph'. Micky had separated from Mike and had been tackled to the floor, where Micky was currently tickling him mercilessly. Davy didn't wait to start fighting back, ending in him and Micky wrestling around playfully on the floor.

Mike chuckled at the two, and moved to pour himself a new cup of coffee, drinking it black. "What we do in bed isn't any of your concern," he replied, sitting himself up on the counter and grabbing the newspaper to look through. He flipped the first page, and then the second, before stopping once he found the 'wanted' ads.

Peter drifted over to join, after a second, looking over the page to try and help. There wasn't much, though; a few people wanting babysitters, but they were all fairly bad at that. Extremely bad at that.

"Alright, looks like we gotta go ask around," Mike decided, looking at Micky and Davy. Who were still wrestling.

"Guys," Mike tried again. "Guys!

The two stopped only when they heard a knock at the door, looking around to see who was going to be stuck with answering it. Mike rolled his eyes, but stepped over the tangle of limbs and arms, just to get to it, allowing Micky and Davy to go back to fighting. Which they happily did, after a moment.

"Do we got the money for Babbitt?" Mike asked, figuring it was him who was knocking. The person at the door seemed mad, at the very least, and Mike wanted to know whether to prepare for a 'here's your money' or a 'you have to wait'.

"Spent it on the drums," Micky called, which Mike nodded at with a small hum. He'd expected that, really, after they'd been accidentally broken at the last gig. By, ironically enough, Davy and Micky wrestling around on the floor.

Mike opened the door casually, though immediately tensed and yelped, slamming the door shut again. Micky and Davy looked over sharply, and Peter looked up as well, though a bit softer. All their faces were shining with confusion, brows furrowed.

"Run," Mike said, soft but stern, the door jerking violently behind him as the man at the door pounded at it, desperate to get in. No one moved for a moment, watching Mike closely, only starting to understand that the situation was quickly turning into a bad one. "Run," Mike repeated, whispering though he was a bit louder. "Hide. Now!"

Everyone jerked into action at that, darting into the guest room without any further question. Only Micky hesitated, though the look in Mike's eyes told him not to wait any longer. He moved to give Mike a kiss, almost a silent promise that things would be okay even though he didn't know whether anything was 'bad' or not. He didn't want them to be, but at the same time he'd never seen Mike look scared, before. And it terrified him to the core, seeing his boyfriend so stiff with fear, eyes shining in a new light. Mike's bright, expressive eyes were now filled with a fear he'd never seen before.

He ran off to the guest room, shutting it at the same time Mike darted away from the door. The thick, wooden door didn't stand a chance against whoever it was, and it slammed open loudly, at the same time Mike sprinted to the kitchen. The door cracked loudly as it hit the wall, knocking into the small table there and causing a few things to fall from the wall. Mike ran and dug through the drawer closest to the fridge.

 _He's getting the gun_ , a voice in Micky's head supplied, as Mike pulled out a small gun of his and held it, pointing at the man. It didn't mean much, though; the man had his own gun, as well. He had it trained on Mike expertly, as if he'd been pointing one at people his whole life. Maybe he had.

"You thought you could leave, runt?" the man asked, his Texan accent thick and almost overly-deep, sending a shiver of fear up the group's spines. Micky moved to open the door, but was held back by Davy. Instead, they just cracked the door, watching through it to see what was going on. What made their normally fearless leader seem scared, what changed his relaxed posture to a stiff, scared one. Whoever this man was, Mike knew. That was easy to see.

"Just go," Mike replied. "Just go, and you can pretend I don't exist."

"Hell no," the man replied, taking a long puff of his cigarette. "You never should have existed in the first place, you hear me? Your mother didn't want you, I didn't want you. Neither of us did, you worthless fag. I'm doin' God a favor, getting your miserable ass off this earth."

Mike wet his lips, swallowing. "Just go," he repeated. "I swear, I'll never see you again, you'll never have to see me-"

The conversation ended there, with a single gunshot. Time seemed to slow down as Mike's eyes widened, before his gaze traveled down, to where blood started to pour freely from his chest. He heard Micky yell for him, a loud cry of 'No!' before he heard yet another shot, and then things went black.

"No!" Micky screamed, the noise loud and frantic. He tried to pull away, tried to fight against Davy's stronger arms, but couldn't. Luckily for them all, the man didn't seem to care, instead shooting Mike once more, causing Mike to fall to the floor. He didn't stop there, either, continuing to shoot Mike over and over again, despite the fact that by that point he was only poking holes in a corpse. Peter fainted immediately at the sight, head hitting the bed on his way down to the floor.

"You bastard!" Micky screamed, voice strained, pulling away from Davy and rushing to his fallen lover. The man didn't care, instead putting his gun into his belt and stalking off.

"No," Micky begged, rubbing a hand over Mike's pale, lifeless face. "No!" he repeated, pulling Mike's body into his lap and rubbing a hand down his cheek, tears quickly falling from his eyes. "No, no, no, no..." He kissed Mike's lips, hoping for it to work. Like a fairytale, a kiss of life. Something, anything to cling to, anything at all. He wasn't gone, that wasn't how it worked. He'd been joking around just a moment ago, they were celebrating his birthday tomorrow...

"Micky," Davy said softly, walking closer to Micky. "Micky, we need to call the police." His voice was soft and calm, though his hands were shaking. A silent form of panic. The only thing keeping him from crying and begging for it to not be real was the fact that he understood. Understood what it was like to lose someone, to watch them get taken right in front of you without any way of stopping it. And he wanted to help, to keep Micky from having those nights that felt so lonely.

"What's the point?" Micky asked, looking up at Davy but still cradling Mike's body, holding him close. Davy was surprised by the anger in Micky's face, the hatred in his tone, and didn't reply.

"What's the damn point?!" Micky repeated, yelling, screaming, silently begging for Mike to come back. For it to be a joke. It was so, so fast, it didn't make sense... No one died that fast. It was fake. It was fake. It had to be fake.

"I know," Davy continued, having to rip his gaze off of Mike's pale face. Mike looked exactly like Davy's mother had, the day she died. Like he was asleep, almost. "I know," he said again. "Mike would want you to-"

"You don't know a damn thing about Mike," Micky protested. "Nobody knows anything about Mike. Mike never talked to anyone but me."

"He trusted you," Davy agreed, causing Micky to pause. It felt less light fighting, to agree. "But you have to accept he's gone. And we need to find the man who did it."

"He's not gone," Micky replied, angrily. "Mike isn't going to die, he's never going to die. He promised to die after me, so I wouldn't live without him, and he... he..." Micky fell silent, for a moment, before he broke out into sobs. Davy moved to rub his back, though he felt hot tears running down his cheeks, as well. He felt Micky's arms wrap around him, holding him tightly as if begging for something to hold onto. It was a feeling Davy recognized all too easily.

 _Twelve._

* * *

 ** _1334 North Beachwood Drive,  
_** _ **April 4th, 2017**_

* * *

Micky looked up at his house, hands on his hips and a smile tugging on his face. He could hear the snickers from people around him, as well as a few kids who were taking joking bets on how long it'd take before he died. But he didn't care; he'd wanted this one for so long. The rumors about it had pulled him in, had taken his interest and turned it into something he couldn't resist. Luckily, no one wanted to live in it. The house was old, being built sometime in the fifties. the last time it'd been lived in was the seventies. Or, really, the last time it'd properly been lived in. Either way, no one wanted it. Making the price low and easy to afford.

Everyone knew the rumors behind the old house. That it'd been the home of two lovers, one who'd been killed for loving the other. Stories got twisted over time, maybe, and it'd probably just been a standard murder of a gay guy, but that was okay. Killing gay guys being _standard_ wasn't okay, though.

Micky made his way to the front door of the place, the story still playing in his mind. He loved it, really, despite the dozens of people who'd lived there before him. Who claimed that they'd seen an angry spirit, and had been chased off. That just sounded like an adventure. Which was why Micky had fought so hard for this house.

He'd been pulled in when he was looking for homes, at first, and had found rumors of this. Of two lovers, who loved each other more than life itself. The rumor stated that the man had died for his lover, and that he'd become a ghost, waiting for his lover to pass on so they could go away together. And, in a silly way, Micky wanted to find a way to help things along. It made sense that the other man would still be alive, as it hadn't been too long ago. The man was, probably, still alive. Which meant that Micky could just find out who it was, and get them back together, and then he'd have a happy old man and a happy ghost. Both gay.

He chuckled to himself before going inside, going upstairs. He'd already had all his furniture moved in, and didn't have to do much other than get food and things. But that could wait; he wanted to hang up cameras and stuff. The house was fairly open, at the very least, other than the bedrooms and the bathroom. And the paint was still the same from where it had been in the seventies, other than the main bedroom that'd been repainted. Micky made his way to the bedroom, more because it was better to use a laptop on the bed than for any other real reason.

He plopped down on it and opened up his computer, not waiting to plug it in before opening it to find Skype, just to talk to his friend. A man who lived all the way across the world - Davy - though he'd still be up at this hour.

He called, putting in his earbuds as the phone rang. He looked up at the screen, then, as Davy's image popped up; his icon, not a webcam. He was tired-looking, probably. Which made sense; it was late, there, though Micky didn't care. Davy stayed up until three or four, even on a good day.

"Hey," he greeted, not waiting for Davy to talk.

Davy chuckled, but asked, "You getting settled into your new house? Your _haunted_ house?"

"You're jealous of my haunted house," Micky replied. "It's fun, I set up all my furniture like it used to be. I think? I tried."

" _How_ do you know what it was like?" Davy asked, raising his eyebrows. "I thought you said that they wouldn't give you photos of the crime - oh. That's dirty, Micky."

Micky could sense the smile in Davy's tone, and grinned widely. "Stealing isn't that bad," he replied. "I payed a guy to get 'em for me, online. So I didn't even steal 'em, I just payed for them to be stolen."

"That still counts as stealing," Davy replied. "But I'm glad you... you set up all the furniture in the same way as when the ghost was alive? Why?"

"So he feels at home," Mike replied, as if it were obvious. He picked up his computer, carrying it down the spiral stairs as he made his way to the kitchen. "He's supposed to be real active, y'know? Like a real person's living here with you. If he can't move the furniture, I might as well make it good for him." Micky set the computer down on the counter, reaching in the fridge to grab a coke.

Davy chuckled at that, but nodded his agreement. "That's nice of you," he replied. "Have you seen him, yet? Or is he still nothing more than a _story_?"

"He's more than a story," Micky replied, putting the coke on the counter next to his laptop and moving to find the box of cookies he'd found and putting them there, too. "There were four guys living here when it happened, and only one of 'em is still alive. He's gonna talk to me about it, later."

"What, the guy who lived here when a gay guy was murdered?"

"He was the guys friend, yeah," Micky replied, putting the cookies on a plate to make them look better.

"And how do you know that the guy wasn't the murderer?"

Micky paused at that, shrugging. "I don't think he is," he replied. "He seemed kinda sad, on the phone. I think he's a stoner, but that's okay. So's everybody back then."

"You're gonna spend the night with an old stoner man," Davy stated.

"Peter," Micky corrected. "And I'm not spending the night with him, I'm adding him to the Skype call."

"You're what?" Davy asked. Soon enough, though, the Skype ringtone filled the air, another man being added to the call.

"Hello?" came his tired voice, sounding both sad and tired.

"Heya," Micky replied. "I've got a friend on the call, is that okay?"

"That's fine," Peter replied. "I don't mind."

"Good," Micky replied. "He's nice, he wants to know stuff, too."

Peter chuckled, though somehow still sounded sad. "What did you want to talk about, this time?"

"The man," Micky replied, talking fast enough that Davy couldn't do much other than listen. "The guy he was dating, is he still alive?"

There was a pause, before Peter replied, causing Micky to wonder if he'd asked a bad question. "Micky," the man stated.

"Yeah?" Micky asked, almost nervously.

"Micky was his name," Peter clarified. "Micky Dolenz."

"Oh," Micky replied, feeling briefly stupid. He got over it, then, and replied, "Neat! Is he still here? What happened to him?"

Another pause.

"He shot himself the night Michael died."


	2. Of Skype Calls and Photos

**Again, thanks to Matts and Ari for betaing. Please enjoy!**

* * *

Micky and Davy were both silent for a moment, both trying to process what they'd heard. They'd thought it'd be a fairly easy fix, really. Davy hadn't cared much, of course, but Micky'd been dead set on finding a way to fix things. And, of course, being a good friend, Davy'd played along. Had done research of his own, and, though he'd gotten interested in it, he hadn't planned on doing much with the information. A few long moments passed, before Micky asked, "He what?"

"He shot himself," Peter repeated. "Right through the head. We all were so… confused. Micky was just so upset, he was crying so much… The other guy who lived with us, David, told me he just left, but I knew. It's the sort of thing you know. And they buried Micky right next to Mike, just like they wanted. They… they never wanted to be apart."

There was a beat of silence, before Davy spoke up, voice soft. "That's sad." It was painfully sad, no matter which way you cut it. It was just depressing, knowing that two people who loved each other were suddenly forced away from each other. Died together, no less, and were buried together despite the fact that they never got to exist that way.

There was another moment or two of pure silence, a soft form of agreement between the three men. Things always had a bad ending, it seemed.

"David left that night," Peter continued, breaking the silence with his soft, sullen tone. "I never saw him again, I think he went back home to his grandfather. And I tried to tell the cops what had happened, but they didn't listen. I was a real... _pothead..._ back in the day, but I know what happened. A man killed Mike, and then Micky killed himself. He had to've, y'know? He didn't just run off. And the rumors that came after… everyone said it was a suicide. A forbidden love, where they both took their lives."

"Hey, yeah," Micky nodded, though no one could see. "That makes sense, that's what everyone was talking about when I first heard 'bout this place."

"The two lovers that killed themselves, too scared to die alone and knowing what would happen if they lived," Davy supplied, a helpful agreement.

"The perfect love story," Micky finished.

"That isn't what happened," Peter stated, leaving no room for argument. The voice of a man who'd been told one too many times that he was a liar, and didn't have time for it to happen again. Didn't have the heart to, maybe; he was doubting himself.

"I know," Micky replied immediately, not wanting to sound like he didn't trust Peter's words. "I believe you. 'N we all know how it was, back then."

"That still raises the question as to why Mike is still around," Davy protested a bit. "Ghosts only stick around when they have a reason to. Like… to watch kids, or something. Or to get revenge on someone. Why would Michael not move on? If Micky died too, I mean. Unless he had someone else behind the curtain, if you know what I mean."

Peter stayed silent, before asking, "Who are…?"

"That's Davy," Micky replied, rather than making Peter ask or Davy answer. "He likes ghost stuff, he just won't admit it."

Peter made a soft 'ah' noise, but didn't reply for a moment or two. "Michael didn't cheat, he didn't believe in things like that. And he didn't ever break anyone's trust. He was loyal to a fault, never did anything he thought would hurt someone else. He took care of all of us."

"Did you recognize the man who shot him?" Micky asked, getting almost a bit excited with his curiosity. "Was it just a stranger? Or someone you knew? Did you not know him? Did Mike know him?"

Peter was silent. "I think I should go. Talking about it is…"

"It's okay," Micky cut him off, though he couldn't help but to feel disappointed. "We can talk some other time, okay?"

Peter smiled over the line, though only because of the unusual familiarity of the man. "Of course," he agreed. "Goodbye, Micky."

And with that he was gone.

"They're the lovers everyone talks about there, huh?" Davy asked, trying not to flaunt his excitement. "The Beachwood lovers."

"I think so," Micky agreed. "I think Peter's telling the truth, though, and that they didn't just kill themselves together."

"What?" Davy asked. "Why?" He believed the same, of course, though more because he wanted it to be like that than out of any real logic.

"Everyone around here thinks he was shot," Micky replied. "And it makes more sense. Why would he be a lingering spirit, if he had nothing to stay alive for? We need to find the guy who killed him."

Davy paused, before deadpanning, "You want to search out a murderer."

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Micky protested, shoving a cookie in his mouth. "He wouldn't stay behind for other-Micky, if he's gone. So it has to be the murderer."

"You haven't even seen the ghost," Davy insisted. "It might not exist."

"He exists," Micky promised, mouth full of cookie.

"The murderer is probably already dead," Davy tried again. "Besides, how are you supposed to find it out? Are you going to ask the ghost?"

"I might."

Davy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're bloody insane, is what you are. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I won't," Micky answered, slightly whiny. "I'm just going to help him move on. He needs to find peace, otherwise he'll never see his love again." He said the last part almost dreamily, caught up in the romantic drama of it.

"That's insane."

"Is it?"

There were a few beats of silence, neither man talking.

"I'm going to bed," Davy decided. "Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Sure, sure," Micky replied, though his voice was distracted. He was, certainly, going to do something stupid..

Davy sighed, but hung up the call. Micky shut his laptop a moment or two later, and carried the plate of cookies and bottle of coke to the small table in front of his sofa. He straightened up the seat, then, and fluffed up the pillows, making it look as comfortable as possible.

"Alright," he called out to the room, sitting down on the floor. "D'you like cookies? I got you some. I dunno if you can eat them, I dunno what ghosts eat."

The room was silent, the only sound being the ticking of Micky's clock. He stayed silent and listened to it for a solid minute, the ticking being both a distraction and a comfort.

He stayed silent a moment or two longer, tapping his feet anxiously. "Ghostie?" he tried again. Maybe the ghost was sleeping, or something. Or was busy doing something else, Micky wasn't sure. Different people did different things, probably. But was a ghost a person? Probably. Maybe?

There still wasn't a response, causing Micky to hum. He grabbed one of the cookies and put it into his mouth. He bit down on it, chewing slowly, waiting for something to happen. Something had to happen, didn't it? The ghost was supposed to be an extremely active one. So where was he?

Mike watched the stranger from a distance, staying in a far corner of the room and just watching. He didn't take kindly to people in his house, really. His and Micky's home. They'd agreed that they'd grow old in it and die there together.

Well, they certainly had died, hadn't they? But Micky _wasn't there_. Mike was alone, was scared, was confused. Was angry, now; he hated everyone who came in. Hated everyone who thought they could just move in and live where Mike lived. Where Mike and Micky were supposed to be, and where they were supposed to move in.

He'd hated the first family, a group of people who seemed to do nothing but break things. They'd broken the window, had had the fridge ripped out and replaced with a big, ugly one. Had put down an ugly carpet on the floor, and had acted as if it was all okay. Had destroyed his and Micky's home, and acted like there wasn't a single thing wrong with it.

And, so, naturally, he'd started making a fuss. Slamming doors, mostly, though that was enough to scare them off. And it'd been enough to get Mike used to how things worked, when you were dead. How physics worked, and how he could touch anything if he did it right.

The next family was when he found out how to make it so people could see him. All it took was focus, really. Though by that point, it wasn't much more than a thought. The little girl had spilled paints all over the floor, made a mess everywhere. Destroyed the guest bedroom.

And then there was the third family. The ones who'd found the door to the small attic, where Babbitt had shoved everything all those years ago. And Mike had appeared, had scared them off and caused them to board up the door to try and trap Mike in there. It didn't work, of course, but Mike's things were safe, all he had left of Micky was safely boarded up and alone. He couldn't stand losing the last few items that Micky had left; it was all he had to keep him going, nowadays.

And then there was this new guy. Someone who was freshly out of college, for something or other. And he'd come in, and he'd put all the furniture where it was supposed to go. He'd cleaned things up, had fixed up old paint with the original colors. He'd just come in with nothing more than the intent to fix things up, and Mike couldn't argue with it.

Still, he couldn't help but to be curious. Especially now that he was close, and got a good look at the man's face. His Micky-ish face. No… it _was_ Micky. Strong jaw, bright eyes, flat nose. It was Micky. Or a damn close lookalike.

Mike slowly made his way closer, though didn't let Micky see him. He had no clue what Micky was doing, really. He was offering him the sofa, maybe; it looked like it. And food, though Mike didn't see why. He didn't want food. He didn't want anything other than his boyfriend. He wanted to get married, to have kids. He'd spent countless nights dreaming about having a baby that looked like Micky.

"Ghostie," Micky called again, causing Mike to smile only faintly. It sounded like Micky, certainly. The joking tone, the constant smile to his voice. It just sounded like Micky. Looked like Micky.

Mike got down on his knees, then, next to Micky, and looked over his face. Whoever this was… well. It was Micky.

Micky sighed, and stood up. "I knew it was dumb," he mumbled to himself. Which was fairly fast to give up, in Mike's opinion; he'd only made Micky wait a half hour or so. "I'll just go buy a house, and waste all my money, and quit my job, just to wait for some stupid ghost. No wonder Davy-"

"I don't think it's dumb," Mike spoke up, voice soft.

Micky immediately jumped and looking around, looking right through Mike as if he couldn't see him. He couldn't, probably. "Ghostie?" He asked, eyes wide and voice breathless.

Mike couldn't help but to chuckle, and stepped up on the couch, his movements fluid and effortless as if he weighed nothing. "Hello," he greeted, sitting down on the back of the couch and putting his feet on the cushions.

Micky jumped as Mike appeared and looked up at him in amazement, looking both terrified and awed. "Ghostie," he repeated, though this time a statement.

"Alive guy," Mike countered. He couldn't help but to smile, a bit; he had no clue who this was, but it was Micky. It made him feel like it was Micky, at the very least.

"You, you…. aren't…." Micky mumbled, before looking back to Mike's face. "Hello."

"Howdy," Mike replied, his head cocking to the side. "Why are you in my house?"

Micky's eyes widened at that, the familiar pink tone rising to his cheeks. "Oh, well, I just… I thought I could live here, too. Is that okay?"

"I guess," Mike replied, jumping up and standing on the back of the couch. "Until you do something I don't like."

Micky swallowed but nodded. "I won't," he promised. "I made you cookies."

Mike's gaze traveled to the plate, before looking back to Micky. "I'm dead."

Micky paused, before replying, "Oh yeah." He stayed silent for a minute, looking at the small plate of cookies before looking back at Mike. "That's okay," he decided. "I like eatin' 'em, I'cn just do that, you'cn just… watch, I guess."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's my favorite thing to do," he replied, deadpan. Part of him was confused, really; this wasn't the Micky he knew. Or, rather, it was, but it was impossible that Micky was there with him. Micky was dead and gone, somewhere Mike couldn't seem to find.

"Sorry," Micky replied, awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He took a sudden drink of the pop, then, just to try and ease the tension.

"It's fine," Mike replied. "I'm used to being dead. Been this way for a long time."

"All alone?"

Mike stared, but chose not to answer, not seeing the point in it.

Micky stayed silent for a bit, as well, before asking, "Did you really date somebody? A guy?"

"Micky," Mike clarified, causing Micky to pause out of momentary confusion. Micky remembered a moment or two later, however, that Micky was the name of the man Mike had been with, and nodded.

"Yeah," he replied. "Him. Do you miss him?"

Mike blinked. "More than I've ever missed anybody, yeah," he replied, though he was starting to feel less sociable at the rather sudden interrogation.

Micky wet his lips and nodded. "I think… I think the reason you can't see him is because you still have unfinished business."

"Oh, yeah?" Mike asked, tone dry, raising his eyebrows. "And why do you think that?"

"Ghosts can't pass on to the next life unless they have complete peace," Micky replied. "So… you don't have that yet, I guess."

"And how do I get that?" Mike asked, his tone sounding more like he was entertaining a kid than actually listening to Micky. He was, maybe.

"I dunno," Micky replied. "I think it's the guy who killed you that's bothering you."

Mike paused at that, his eyebrow furrowing and lips pulling into a frown. "Why?" he asked. He hadn't ever cared about the man, since he'd died. "I don't care about him."

"Not lovey care," Micky agreed, nodding. "But you've got beef with him, you know? He killed you, you want revenge."

"He's probably long dead, by now," Mike replied, shrugging. "Burning in Hell, where he belongs."

"You knew him, then?" Micky tried again, slightly annoyed at the fact that Mike didn't seem the sort to just talk and tell you what you needed to know. He kept himself calm, acting patient with Mike just because he didn't want Mike to get mad and leave. Or break things, or something.

"Of course I knew him," Mike replied. "Who the hell would go murder a stranger?"

Micky didn't bother to tell Mike that, in fact, a lot of people would, instead just looking down for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Who was he?" he asked, deciding to just flat-out ask. When he looked back up, however, Mike was gone.

Micky looked around for a moment or two, calling out, "Mike?" a few times. Mike didn't show back up, however, and didn't turn out to be hiding in some sort of corner or something. Which meant he'd left, for one reason or another.

Micky sighed, somewhere between annoyed and relieved. Seeing an actual ghost was spooky. One that he could talk to, no less; he wondered if there was a connection between him and the ghost, somehow. Or if he was special, like a ghost whisperer. That'd be neat.

He rubbed a hand over his face, before getting up and deciding to shower and go to bed. He didn't feel like staying up more, though only because he couldn't call Davy. It didn't seem worth it to stay up without someone to talk to.

He finished up the coke in a few gulps, though coughed and spluttered for a moment or two, drinking it a bit too fast. After collecting himself, he made his way up the stairs, not bothering to wrap the cookies. He was still a bit spooked, in a way, and he didn't want to.

He made his way up to the bathroom, and stripped his clothes off, though he stopped once he got to his underwear. It was silly, definitely, but he didn't want the ghost to look at him naked. Even if Mike didn't seem like too mean of a ghost.

He eventually got the courage to get his underwear off, though immediately stepped into the shower. He had to start up the water in there, because of it, and ended up yelping and backing away from the water, surprised at the cold.

The water heated up fast, fortunately, and soon enough he was under it, enjoying the warmth for a moment or two as he thought about what all they'd talked about. Whether he'd be able to save Mike or not, mostly.

He didn't actually have much for shampoo, not having bought any. He did, however, have hand soap, which he piled into his hair and set to scrubbing clean. It wouldn't do the job perfectly, of course, but as long as he didn't smell he didn't care.

Though he normally took long showers, typically taking time to sing and play around a bit, he didn't waste a moment in getting back out and wrapping up in a towel, still scared that Mike would show up just to be a peeping Tom or something. He ran to his room as fast as he could, as well, almost as if Mike was still waiting around in the living room.

He had to dig through a box to find his pajamas, once he was back in his bedroom, though he slipped them on the second he could. He went downstairs, though only to grab his laptop to carry back up to his room. He plugged it into the wall, before plopping face-down on the bed, exhausted from having to do so much in one day.

He did wonder what all he could do with Mike, though. What he could do about the murderer, or how to find out who that was. How to get Mike to talk about it, maybe, just because he didn't seem like the sort to openly talk about things.

Maybe the ghost was mad, he realized. It wasn't nice to ask someone their weight, so it probably wasn't okay to ask them other things. Like how they'd died. Almost in apology, he called out, "Goodnight, ghostie," hoping that Mike'd hear and wouldn't be as sore.

The next morning came all too quickly, Micky's phone blaring the loud Skype ringtone directly in his ear. Micky made a small, distressed noise, but reached around to find his phone. The name 'Davy' was written across the top of the call, showing who it was. Micky grunted and denied the call, typing over the chat, instead.

 _dude its 7 in the mornn go away_

He yawned again, and rubbed his hand over his face. He settled back into his thick, warm blankets, his eyes blinking shut. It didn't take long at all for him to doze off, though it took just a moment or two longer for Davy's reply.

 _It's a whole lot later, here. Now wake up, I think I found something that you might need to see_

Micky groaned, sitting up and reaching around for his glasses. Before he realized that he hadn't taken his contacts out from the night before, and flinched slightly, though he didn't actually have a way to fix it.

' _I mean it,'_ Davy insisted. ' _It's creeping me out.'_

Micky yawned again, and propped himself up against the headboard.

' _better be somethin good_ ' he typed back, watching the screen as the small notification of 'Davy is typing…' popped up. He rubbed a hand over his nose, wiping a small bit of snot away. He wiped his hands on the covers, then, not really minding the fact that it was fairly gross.

' _It is_ ', Davy's reply came, causing Micky to care only a fraction more. ' _Get up and get dressed and call me._ '

Micky snorted, but got up, stretching again. He ran a hand through his hair, which was thick enough to still be slightly damp from last night's shower, before he got up, making his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. He just grabbed himself the plate of cookies and another pop, as it was all he had, before he went back upstairs, unplugging his computer and taking it to his bed.

He took a long drink of the Coke, before calling, though he was still just as sleepy.

"Hey," Davy greeted, anyways, voice just as happy as usual.

"Hey," Micky agreed in return. "You said you got somethin' to show me?" He took another drink of the Coke, hoping it'd make the caffeine kick in faster.

"Yeah," Davy replied. "Hold on, I'm sending you a picture."

There were a few moments that passed, before there was a small 'ding' noise, indicating the photo had arrived.

Micky looked down at the old thing, and for a moment was silent, before he sat up suddenly. "Hey, that's Mike!" he exclaimed.

"What, really?" Davy asked, slightly surprised. He knew it was Mike, of course; he just didn't think Micky'd know that it was Mike. "You saw him?"

"Talked to him," Micky corrected. "He's a bit of a grump."

"You'd be a grump, too, if you were dead."

Micky blew a raspberry, but continued looking over the photo. "Who's the guy with him?" he asked, noticing the fact that the photo was cropped and that Mike had some man's arms around his middle.

"Well that's the thing," Davy replied. "I was wondering that, too. So I looked up more pictures of him, you know? And look at what I found."

Micky paused, waiting, watching the clock slowly tick by. He clicked his tongue a few times, before replying, "There's nothing there."

"I know, I know," Davy replied. "I have to find it. Just… look at that one."

Micky humphed, but complied, looking over the photo of Mike. "He looks different," he commented.

"Happier?" Davy guessed, still clicking through his files.

"I dunno," Micky replied. "Maybe. Here, lemme see if I'cn get him to come here. Ghost! Ghostie! MIKE!"

"Stop!" Davy cried in return, having to pull out one of his earbuds. "Christ, man, you're going to put out my eardrum."

"Oh," Micky flushed a deep red. "Sorry."

"It's fine, just… warn a man," Davy replied, rubbing his ear with one hand.

" _I'm Davy, and I can't handle noises in my ear_ ," Micky mocked, once he realized Davy wasn't actually hurting. At that moment, Davy yelled loudly, causing Micky to scream, "Ow!" as he yanked his earbuds out. "That's cheating," he accused loudly, before realizing Davy couldn't hear him. He picked up the earbuds, repeating, "That's cheating."

"I heard you the first time," Davy replied. "You-"

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice cut off, causing Micky to look up sharply. He couldn't see anything, but cried out, "Ghostie!"

"The ghost is there?" Davy asked, small competition forgotten, raising his eyebrows. "Did he just appear?"

"He just talked," Micky replied. "I dunno where he's at, though. Probably hiding."

"I'm not hiding," Mike replied, moving to get on the bed as well though he was still on his feet. He bent down at the middle and looked over the computer, brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Talking to Davy," Micky replied, trying to cover the fact that he'd jumped when Mike had appeared..

"Yeah, it doesn't seem it," David replied, slightly annoyed. "Who are you talking to? Is this a joke?"

"It's not a joke," Micky promised quickly.

"Is David British?" Mike asked, causing Micky to pause before nodding. "Yeah," he replied. "He is, why?"

Mike looked back to the computer. "You're calling him?"

Micky paused. "Yes," he repeated. "Why?"

Mike continued staring, seeming almost attached to the small icon of Davy's face. "Come with me," he directed suddenly.

"And hang up on Davy?"

"Come with me or stay here, I don't care."

Micky didn't waste a moment, slamming the laptop shut despite the 'ping' of a new image being sent and Davy warning, "No, listen, Micky, you look just like-"

"Where are we going?" Micky asked, almost too excitedly.

"The attic."

* * *

 **Please R &R! I love feedback, and I love criticism on how to do better. Thank you for reading!**


End file.
